Past Tense
by To Eve
Summary: Who knew the past could be so damn frustrating? K/S slow building.
1. Chapter 1

"Spock!"

Jim's voice was hardly distinguishable as it was caught and thrown away by the buffeting, snarling wind that was whirling around him. Static buzzed within his ear and lightening crackled distinctively above his head, sending blue shards of light through the air and making his skin tingle uncomfortably. Spock reached out in the direction of the faint word, trying desperately to reconnect with the Captain through the now reeling sandstorm.

Sand?

There had been no sand before...

"_Spock!_"

His blindly groping hand connected with another and he grabbed it instinctively, pulling it towards him with the help of the entirety of strength his body contained. A feat which should have been easy turned into a battle of wills against the unnatural elements until a familiar weight finally jolted against him and blue eyes were staring into his, their features bloodshot and red rimed from the intensity of the storm. Tanned hands wove into his dusty science uniform, twisting there and holding on as Spock moved his own arms around the golden back to secure the human in place. They mustn't separate again or risk completely losing each other, a result which neither could afford. They needed to get back to the ship _somehow_, but the storm made beaming impossible. That was the last piece of information he wa_s_ provided with before communication had completely cut out , shutting of Chekov's final frantic report. Spock bent his head forward, closing his eyes against the biting wind as the howling seemed to grow louder, sending black strands of his fringe jumping around erratically. What they needed was shelter.

He felt a hand creep upwards from its place on his shirt, until it was placed upon the exposed hollow of his neck, the touch sending a tremor through him despite the ferocity of the situation. Emotion flowed through him.

_Fear.....desperation....worries.... worries for....the Enterprise and.... for him....and then..._

_Spock?_

Spock's eyes flew open, widening at the sudden voice inside his head before being forced to clench shut once again. This was not possible. He had shields, multiple ones, erected within his mind. They were fortifications; phaser proof in all regards. They had been there since his younger years. According to his father, who had told him at a later date, even the healers on Vulcan had had trouble breaching them. The captain should not be able to enter his conscious in any form as a result. _It was just not possible._

As if to annoyingly contradict him, the overly familiar voice came again.

_Spock?_

Spock paused, searching and then finding a slight golden presence at the corner of his mind. He contemplated it for a moment.

_Captain?_

Spock could almost feel the smile within him.

_Hey there!_

_What are you doing? _Spock asked plainly, his disbelief jarring within him. The Captain ignored it however, providing what acquainted to a mental eye roll instead and then replied.

_Just finding a way to talk to you without eating buckets of sand in the process_. A wince followed this statement. _I've probably already swallowed enough to be a permanent sand castle by now._

Spock could not answer, his own mind still reeling as it tried to accommodate this unexpected addition to his thought stream. How had he...?

_Spock?_

Spock shook himself, tightening his hold on the human in front of him, making their bodies come into further contact as they were both buffeted sideways again. Spock took advantage of the connection despite its strange nature and replied to the inquiry.

_It seems we are in a slight predicament captain._

A snort.

_Tell me about it! Seriously, what is it with us two, fucking ion storms, and happening to run into them all the time?_

Spock couldn't help the spike of amusement as it shot through him.

_It is true that there seems to be a slight increase in their presence surrounding us than is logistically normal. However, I believe this is not an ion storm in essence, but more of a parable vortex phenomenon._

_Vortex? What, like a time vortex?_

Spock sighed internally. _I do not believe the technology to recede into the past or project to the future has become known to us just yet Captain, so such a thing is unlikely...._

Another eye roll.

_...as such I am presently uncertain as to its full capacitates or nature._

_And we can't get back to the ship either, yes?_

_Indeed._

_And the possibilities of finding shelter are not promising?_

_Correct._

_So...we're screwed?_

_Essentially._

_Ah...I love it when you're so straight forward with me Spock. Those one word answers are a real turn on you know._

_Captain-_

It was then that the golden light which had started to become surprisingly comfortable was suddenly ripped from his mind. Spock gasped at the emptiness as he was aggressively jolted back to the reality outside his mind. He came externally conscious to find his arms empty. Horror shot through him.

"Captain?!"

It was impossible not to detect the fear within the word as he lost sight of the Captain, spinning sand covering wherever he might have been within seconds. He became aware of the scene surrounding him and quickly noticed something different.

Darkness was now swirling and withering, circling his prone figure. It whipped around him, snaking through his arms and across his throat, the tendrils icy cold against his skin. He tried to move forward but his legs couldn't comply with the action. He looked down and found them buried within a compacted mass of brown and yellow sand. He growled, frustrated, as lights and sparks began to dance across his skin. The sinister ribbons grabbed at him and he jerked away in response. Where was the Captain? He must find him...

Spock felt a jolt and it was all he could do to realise that his legs had fallen out beneath him and he himself was presently falling, plummeting into a dark unforgiving abyss before he hit something hard and instantly loss all sense of time, purpose and mind.

------

When next he woke Spock was hot, not just warm, but burning. He lay on his stomach on some form of stable surface, his eyes closed tightly; that much he could comprehend. Footsteps were moving toward him quickly as well apparently, running heavy and hard against the ground.

"Spock!"

Was that the Captain's voice? Disorientation had warped his senses to an astonishingly mute level and he couldn't...quite....

"Spock?" The voice came again and now hands were touching his back, rolling him over and then touching his face softly. "Darling, are you hurt?"

_Darling?_

While the Captain had multiple endearments he loved to friendly torment him with, _darling_ had never been one. Neither did he touch him in such a way. Spock forced his eyes to open, the sand which presently gritted them shut making such an action particularly hard and painful. When he finally succeeded by wrenching them open, light assaulted his vision and he blinked, sun spots dancing within his sight.

The glare disappeared as a dark shadow moved in front of the harsh brightness and his vision cleared with its absence.

When he saw who knelt over him, he froze despite the aggressive heat, his blood running cold, and his head suddenly spinning. The face above him was openly stricken and what seem to be tears streaked down across cheeks, making paths in the red dust which had obviously settled there beforehand.

"Spock?"

Spock swallowed roughly, willing his throat to move, staring aghast at the women above him and couldn't help but gape. When his voice eventually came it was disbelieving and shocked, choked against the firmament of illogic which had decided to present itself to him.

"...Mother?"

* * *

_I thought I would just throw in one of those lovely cliff hangers which everyone just __adores __so much_ _right there. The point of view of this story will change depending upon who provides the best insight, so I'll juggle it between Jim and Spock respectively. I have a pretty basic outline to what I want to happen so hopefully we will all get their eventually!_

_One warning however is that I'm a sporadic writer. There is a method to my madness, but somewhere along the line it usually gets lost. So really, I can't predict when updates will occur._

_Despite this however, I hope you enjoy it and please review because I would love to know your thoughts etcetera..._

_Kudos..._


	2. Chapter 2

At least he knew there was a heaven now, Spock decided as he lay on his back gazing upwards at the visage above him; or somewhere equal to such a place.

It was something which had constantly bothered him since his mother's death. Where exactly would she go...afterwards? Pure logic dictated most strongly that with the coming of death a Vulcan simply turned into flesh, bone and biological matter. The illogical , or Spock preferred to look at it as being the _human _side of him, hoped however that she had ascended to a better place somewhere...out there. One which was beyond all comprehensible thought and reason.

And it wasn't like his mother was Vulcan either.

"Spock, please speak. Are you hurt?"

He could not help the slight contented smile which slowly graced his face, the side of his mouth quirking upwards. Her voice was just as he remembered; warm, soft and comforting. Sadness sparked within him as he realised just how much he had missed her; had missed her presence. He had never exhibited affection for her. He had never told her how much he loved her as such a display of emotion was very un-Vulcan and looked down upon harshly.

He regretted such a thing every day since her parting, Spock realised. He tilted his head slowly to the right, feeling the movement of grainy sand beneath him as he did, and widened his smile further at his mother's softly creased face. His reaction was probably more to do with the intense and distracting headache which had started to build at the back of his skull however, than for any other reason, but either way...

...perhaps he was being given a chance to rectify his pre-existing behaviour?

Spock watched as her features turned shocked, an evident widening of the eyes. He could not understand why. She had always encouraged the more human and emotional side within him when he had been younger. Provided she had never truly succeeded, but never the less she did try. So why was this so surprising to her?

And then a thought struck him, more powerful than a starship warping at factor 8. His smile fell.

Because.... because if his mother was here with him, did that not mean that he too was also currently deceased?

_No!_

Alarm coursed through him and his entire body convulsed to a sitting position rather haphazardly, arms flying upwards and then back down to the orange-red ground beneath him. The act sent dust particles swirling into the air for a moment before settling once again and he glanced frantically around taking in the very..._very _familiar environment before him. His chest was heaving, though he knew that such an action should not have been exerting enough for the gasping breaths which now racked his body.

_No...he couldn't be...not.._

"Spock!" His mother had moved back at his sharp movement and was staring at him aghast.

He shook his head, trying to throw the voice and image back to the inside of his consciousness, back to where it belonged among the many other things which had come to pass. She was not real, not truly here, he told himself. His mind was not functioning correctly...not properly. He threw up walls, impenetrable metal barriers against the feeling of affection and love which he had soaked from her, blocking them out, making them dead to him as she know was. He had not expected them to fall quickly under the onslaught however, crumbling and falling away instead of holding as he intended. What was the meaning of this? They were as weak as they had been when he was a child.

_He was not dead...he would not submit to this!_

A cool hand was placed upon his shoulder, and his reaction could not have been more crazed if a wild selhat had suddenly appeared.

Spock struggled blindly to his feet and away from the hand, the movement straining the sore muscles across his back. He stumbled away, his legs resisting the action with every step as his head now pounded from an unmistakable blood rush. The heat of the sun beat down upon him, its intensity and feature so recognizable that a burst of horrific nostalgia ripped through him and tears pricked at his eyes. He choked, and brought his hand up to wipe away the offending water which fell down his cheek.

There was an underlying question to all of this that he had yet to find but was instinctively there among his thoughts.

Why was he acting so emotional?

He heard his mother...no the _vision_ shouting and Spock could faintly hear, yet did not comprehend the words being called, as he stared astounded down at the hand he had just brought into his sight. The fingers were long and slender, pale and with just a slight greenish tinge created through the refraction of light upon the skin and the blood beneath it.

This was not what had stopped him however. It was, in fact, the sleeve which covered half of said hand.

It was a deep blue-grey and cut from a material that was soft yet obviously sturdy, and was made slightly dirty by dust which had settled there at some point. Styled sharply to fall in surrounding points on either side of the hand, next to the thumb and fifth finger, it was tailored to provide substantial cover but also allow a fine ease of movement for the wearer.

Spock's eyes travelled upwards along and across his forearm and bicep, extending his arm outwards, to view the cloth better. It remained the same until just below his neck, where a slightly darker material, black almost in colour resided, revealed through a square opening of the bluish grey. He looked down; following the fitted dark blue once again as it fell across his chest until mid stomach, where it cut open to reveal brown pants and black shoes, while black strips continued to fall to mid calf by his sides and if he was correct, around behind him. Just like his arm, it was all covered in a faint layering of red dust.

All in all, he concluded, the entire ensemble was very similar to what he had worn during his younger days, when he was in his final years of Vulcan education before enlisting in Starfleet.

_How peculiar._

The sound of more footsteps made their way to him and he tensed, tuning himself more effectively into his surroundings. These were lighter however and not running either, but there seemed to be an urgency behind them which undermined the calm. They came closer until finally stopping a few metres away. There was a slight murmuring, to soft for even him to here, before-

"My son?"

Spock would probably not have been so surprised if the words hadn't been spoken in Vulcan. As it was they were said in his native tongue _and_ by a male voice which, just like most things in this place, seemed to be so very familiar. Such a combination warranted him to whip around quickly and all but gape at the figure who now stood at his mother's side. He stuttered.

"Father?"

...but his father was not dead.

"Spock you are distressing your mother. Come, we must proceed back home." The words were still in Vulcan, but much softer than he could ever recall them being toward him since he decided to forego the science academy for another life path. The slanted eyebrows were furrowed slightly in a strange display of emotion which Spock could not interpret either, but it was surreal enough for a mood to be present on the usually stoic face anyway. He stood still looking at both his parents in confusion.

_Both_ his parents.

"How..." he began, but stopped as he found his throat scratchy and sore. He winced and tried to clear his throat, the intent to form a comprehensible sentence within his surface thoughts. He closed his eyes against the pain as he did so, breathing deeply.

"Sarek, what is wrong with him?"

One could clearly hear the worried nature within the words.

"Be calm my wife, it will be the after-effect of the storm; that is all. Give him time. Not many survive such an occurrence".

_Storm?_

It was like a floodgate had been unlocked as Spock's eyes flew open and his head wrenched upwards.

_'Seriously, what is it with us two, fucking ion storms, and happening to run into them all the time?'_

_Storms..._

_The Captain..._

Comprehension shot through him.

"Jim..." he gasped out, staggering forward toward his parents, willing his limbs to move fluidly as the need to find his commanding officer became second to his own concerns. He started to cough violently as one of his breaths got caught within his throat, and his shoulders shuddered. It seemed akin to expelling ones internal organs out, Spock decided, as the coughs quickly turned into hacks.

'_I'm sure I've swallowed enough sand to be a permanent sandcastle.'_

The earlier statement, which now seemed so far away, may have still been humours if a black shadow hadn't started to waver at the edge of his vision as the coughs didn't let up and air started to become in short supply. He was now certain that was what the problem was within him.

_Sand._

He fell to his knees.

"Sarek!"

Hands were suddenly upon him, under his arms, trying to keep him from falling completely.

He couldn't breathe.

His head lolled forward but it was caught by something sturdy and rested there in relief. He was being lifted upwards; legs swept from underneath him as he felt the jostling action of one walking begin beneath him. Sound faded away as comprehensible thought began to slip through his fingers and into a swallowing darkness once again.

Spock sighed as waves of calm unexpectedly rolled through him, allowing him to surrender more easily to the black which was quickly dominating the light. A torrent of kaleidoscope-like thoughts flitted through his mind as it did, seeming to jump and leap from synapse to neuron across the entirety of his brain. None stood long enough for him to grab onto and contemplate however, and they waylayed his seeking mental fingers with glee, hiding their secrets within the oncoming darkness which quickly overtook him.

Why_ was here?..._Where_ was he?..._Why _was he dressed so?... _

_...And _where_ was the Captain_?


	3. Chapter 3

Jim had only just opened his eyes when something decided to collide sickeningly with the side of his face.

Consequently, he shut them again pretty quickly since he didn't really have much choice in the matter.

The impact which was directed against his jaw, crunched as stone met flesh, and he was thrown backwards as his body collapsed in on itself, slamming into what he could only presume was a wall. He groaned as he slid down into a slumped sitting position, shoulders hunched over as his head spun wildly and his cheek burned. Black swamped his vision of the floor and he clenched his eyes down, trying desperately to waylay the incoming light headedness.

Those stars could get real damn annoying at times when they weren't in the sky like they should be, he'd decided.

Something grabbed his shirt roughly and suddenly he was heaved upwards, his back scraping against the hard walled surface as he was lifted bodily from the floor. Jim struggled against the force but couldn't seem to get his legs or arms to work properly. He was violently shook, making the back of his head hit jarringly against the wall; an action which he knew would have made his vision go completely dark if his eyes weren't already closed. His fight and flight response system seemed to be completely shot for the time being.

The stone quickly took on a personality as a cringe worthy voice reached his ears.

"You think you can just do something boy, and think I won't find out?"

Boy?

Since when did the age of twenty-four constitute as being kid-dish?

And what had he done exactly?

"Uh..." he managed to struggle out which, all things considered, was rather admirable bearing in mind that his grasp on reality continued to be really annoying and flip flop all over the damn place. His mouth wasn't helping matters either; both because it was rough to the point of being sandpaper, and furry, like he hadn't brushed his teeth in God knows when. His mind also felt incredibly fuzzy...

...though that could also of had something to do with the fact that a hand had now come around to his throat, holding his head back and starting to cut off his air supply. Jim didn't know if such a thing was intentional or not which, all in all, was probably the freakiest part about the situation.

Seriously, what was it with people and thinking _choking_ was the best way to do off with him?

Jim brought his own hands up and clawed at the thick fingers which were latched around his neck as his legs kicked weakly. Man, they were like bloody _clamps_.

"What do you have to say, eh?"

Well, you know, I _would _say something and all except you're not really giving me much of a chance, he wanted to reply sarcastically. Since the possibility of such a thing was small however, he settled for an effective eye roll which probably would have been _more_ effective if he didn't feel like his eyes were about to pop out of their sockets during it _and_ if they hadn't been shut.

Note: it was really, _really_ weird rolling you eyes when they were shut.

At the lack of a reply the fingers started to tighten more and it this point it was almost fate that he was going have bruises. Hand shaped ones; the worst kind he knew from experience. The action also _clearly_ displayed the intent behind the hold and it wasn't all sugar drops and candy canes.

Oh, _hell_ no!

He jerked his leg up between the two before him and felt his knee connect sharply. He heard a deep grunt which quickly developed into a curse, and then the large hands were releasing him. Air rushed into his lungs as they did so and Jim gasped, sucking it in desperately, rubbing the smarting skin of his throat. His eyes watered as he looked up and then froze, his confusion skyrocketing into infinity and beyond.

"G-Greg?" he stuttered, recognising the man who was now bent over at the waist before him. He had lanky brown hair which was slightly balding at the top, along with the overall heavy features which probably could come across as good looking to some if said person liked a constant brooding look. Personally, Jim would probably want to spend about as much time with him as he would a convicted killer. The guy pretty much had the personality to match one.

"You little...! "

Jim winced. God, even the voice was unpleasantly familiar; a low and grating resonance which sounded like gravel rock being dragged across a bitumen road.

"Greg?" Jim had to ask again, bewildered, ignoring the possibility of the imminent threat which was slowly rising before him. "How...?"

He shook his head and stopped, clearing his throat. It was all out of kilter he realised, too high for him and strained as well. He looked around as he did so and for the first time actually became aware of exactly _where_ he was. His voice became forgotten momentarily.

Okay......_weird_.

Jim was beyond certain that only a fair few minutes ago he'd been in the middle of a freakin' ion storm and eating enough sand that he would need to have his stomach pumped and develop a phobia for beaches.

Yeah, right....so why and probably more importantly, _how_ was he now at home?

Like. Actual. Home. Not the _Enterprise _'home'_,_ though he had taken to calling the ship as such over the last couple of months, but like...his_ house. _His actual_ house._

Yeah, he really had to stop stating the obvious now.

Did such a thing count however if the obvious was blatantly insane?

From Jim's current vantage point he could currently see all the weird ornaments which he remembered his mum collecting, those knick knack kinds of things which either had no apparent use or couldn't be assigned one because you didn't know what it was in the first place. There was also the huge book collection running entirely along the left wall which, unlike the former stuff, Jim absolutely revered. They were where most of his general knowledge had come from that he now had hidden away inside his head. Jim blamed them for his fondness to read books excessively whenever the time arose, which was now hardly ever since gaining his captaincy.

He could also see the kitchen from here through an open doorway, and the wooden set of stairs which would lead to the second story and his empty bedroom...

He caught sight of a mass of blonde hair in the dark murky reflection in the screen of the only computer- his mum was pretty old fashioned- in the residence as his eyes passed across it. He paused, staring closer at his own visage for a second longer. His eyebrows drew together. There was something not quite....

A hand slammed down on his shoulder and he instinctively jerked away from the contact. He whipped away and then around to the side ducking under the other outstretched arm which he could only presume had intended to block him. He flitted away putting his impressive evasive skills to good use to make his way to a spot at least a few metres away from his attacker. He watched the man who was currently impersonating a thunderstorm warily.

There was even a significant growl to accompany it.

"Just stay still will you!"

Jim could have laughed, if not for the situation.

No chance in that department. He hadn't survived this far in life by doing what people always said to do.

Jim backed away as the other man moved forward, stepping toward the only door he knew would exit onto the front porch and bring relative safety. The openness behind it beckoned to him almost luringly and the trapped feeling he had experience from the beginning of_ whatever _this was began to double.

He had to give it one last stab though because he needed to know what was going on. Because none of this made any sense to him whatsoever and he was pretty bloody accepting and understanding with most things when they came along.

But this took everything to a whole new level of _crazy._

His back hit against the wooden frame of the front door, just as he had expected it to. He looked straight into the muddy brown eyes when it did, staring them down and trying to put everything behind it.

"Why am I here?" he asked, straightforward, seeking for an answer, a reason...anything.

Had he finally lost it?

Greg sneered and laughed, allowing Jim's disgust for him to double instantaneously. "You're here because your damn mother _left_ you here when she decided to go traipsing all over damn space," he replied, stepping forward. Jim responded by finding the door knob with his hand. "If I knew I was going to have to look after some stupid brat while she was gone, I would never have bloody well signed up for this relationship!"

Brat?

Seriously what was it with the kid remarks all of a sudden?

And come on, like really...stupid?

Jim didn't have time to comprehend anymore than that however, before the guy lunged at him. Within that same instance Jim was gone though, turning the doorknob and throwing the door wide open as he burst backwards through the frame of the worn and stained doorway. He slammed it shut again, hearing a distinctive grunt of pain as he did so and then stumbled down the few stairs to the dirt ground, right into the heat of the Iowan sun.

He didn't realise that looking up was a bad idea until the beams of sunlight scorched his eyes and he was forced to close them less they burned out. Or, that's what it felt like. He cursed.

God, he had forgotten how harsh the sun could be. Working on a starship for an extended period made one forget such natural elements over time. The fake computer generated UV which was supplied on the _Enterprise_ may not serve so well for those individuals who like a perfectly golden tan, but it did significantly decrease your chances of getting any form of skin cancer.

It also flailed in the light of the real thing, with no pun intended.

Jim glanced around at the familiar farm setting. It was clear and open, except for a few trees scattered here and there, and the precarious looking wire fence somewhere in the distance which marked the lands boundary lines. Grass was also scarce, the brown compacted ground dominating over it; where there was grass though it was yellow and water stricken. He turned to his left and gazed at worn down shed which looked about ready to collapse in on itself, the red rust on it creating a speckled and sickly arrangement over the metal. He breathed in and similar scents found their way to him. It might not be perfect, but it was part of home which he loved.

He looked back around to the house where all was relatively silent. Perhaps Greg had given up on him. It wouldn't be the first time that they'd just wanted him out of the house and away from it for good. He shrugged. It didn't really matter to him, such a thing was the least of his concerns at the moment. He needed answers, hell of a lot of them, and he didn't think he was going to be getting them here, not with Grumpy Greg around anyway.

Jim sighed as he resolutely began to walk down the dirt track which veered away from his childhood home, swirls of dust alighting into the air around his shoes as he kicked at the ground. The sun beat mercilessly down onto him and sweat began to trickle down between his shoulder blades. The walk would give him time to think, he decided, to muse through the assortment of 'what the hell' scenarios he had just been through and maybe start on a plan. He personally didn't think he would get that far though, not with the amount of Q and A's he was currently looking at. Damn, he was confused.

He sighed, realising he couldn't put it off however, and began to rearrange his thoughts chronologically.

First things first....

...why had he just come face to face with his mum's fifth boyfriend?

His mum's _dead _fifth boyfriend?

* * *

_I thought 'Frank' was just a bit too stereotypical for my liking. I'm also pretty proud of the fact that I have been able to end every chapter so far with a question..._

_For everyone who has reviewed, alerted or favourited –is that a word?...my computer says no , but eh..- thank you SO much. It's really great to hear your thoughts and to have the support!_

_Continue to review and spread those lovely creative brain juices: )_

_Kudos!_


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